James PATTERSON: Cross Fire

So far, the firm’s official comment was that they “had no knowledge” of any wrongdoing among their staff. In the Washington playbook, that’s usually code for covering one’s behind without actually getting backed into a legal corner.

Not that I was prejudiced against Dammler to begin with. That came after forty minutes of waiting in reception, and then another twenty of monosyllabic noncommittal answers from him, with an expression on his face like he’d rather be getting a root canal about now – or maybe like he was getting a root canal about now.

This much, I’d already pulled together on my own: Before joining the staff at D-M, Craig Pilkey, originally from Topeka, Kansas, had spent three two-year terms in Congress, where he’d earned a reputation as the banking industry’s mouthpiece on the Hill. His unofficial nickname had been the “Re-Deregulator,” and he’d sponsored or cosponsored no fewer than fifteen separate bills aimed at extending the scope of lenders’ rights.

According to D-M’s website, Pilkey’s specialty was helping financial service companies “navigate the federal government.” His biggest client by far at the time of his death was a coalition of twelve midsize banks around the country, representing more than seventy billion in total assets. These same companies were the ones whose campaign contributions to the other dead man, Congressman Vinton, had triggered the federal inquiry just under way.

“Why are you telling me all this about Craig and Dammler-Mickelson?” Sid Dammler wanted to know. So far, he hadn’t indicated if any of it was news to him or not.

“Because, with all due respect, I have to imagine that some number of people out there are going to be happy about Craig Pilkey’s death,” I said.

Dammler looked deeply offended. “That’s a disgusting thing to say.”

“Who might have wanted to kill him? Any idea at all? I know there were threats.”

“Nobody. For God’s sake!”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said. “You’re not helping us find his murderer.”

Dammler got to his feet. The red on his face and neck stood out against the tight white collar of his shirt. “This meeting’s over,” he said.

“Sit down,” I told him. “Please.”

I waited until he was back in his seat.

“I understand that you don’t want to give more airtime to your critics than they’ve already had,” I went on. “You’re a PR firm, I get it. But I’m not a reporter for the Post, Sid. I need to know who Craig Pilkey’s enemies were – and don’t tell me he didn’t have any.”

Dammler leaned way back with his hands behind his head. He looked as if he were waiting to be cuffed.

“I guess you might start with some of the national homeowners associations,” he said finally. “They weren’t exactly fans of Craig’s.” He sighed and looked at his watch. “There’s also the entire consumer lobby, the nut-job bloggers, the anonymous hate mailers. Take your pick. Talk to Ralph Nader while you’re at it.”

I ignored the sarcasm. “Is any of this information tracked in one place?”

“To the extent that it concerns our clients, sure. But you’re going to need a warrant before I even think about putting you in the same room with any of that. It’s private, it’s confidential.”

“I thought you might feel that way,” I said, and laid two sets of paperwork out on the desk between us. “One for files – one for e-mail. I’d like to start with Pilkey’s office. You can lead the way, or I’ll find it myself.”

Dear Fuckstick,

I HOPE YOU’RE satisfied with yourself. Maybe someday you’ll lose YOUR fucking job and YOUR house, and then you’ll have some MOTHERFUCKING CLUE what you’re putting innocent people through out here in the REAL world.

A lot, but not all, of the letters were pretty much like that. I’ll tell you what – when people get really mad, they curse!

The writers were angry, disappointed, threatening, heartbroken, crazy. It ran the gamut. My warrant was good until ten p.m., but I could have spent the whole night reading hate mail in Pilkey’s office.

After a while, I got tired of the slow walk-bys from the staff, so I closed the door and kept sorting.

The mail was from all over the country but especially from Pilkey’s home state of Kansas. There were stories about homelessness, lost life savings, families who couldn’t stay together – all types of people who had suffered in the financial downturn and placed a whole lot of the blame on K Street and Washington.

The blog entries, at least the ones that D-M tracked, were more radicalized, tending toward the political instead of the personal. One group, the Center for Public Accountability, seemed to lead the charge. They – or, for all I knew, some guy in a basement somewhere – had a regular column called “Fight the Power.” The latest entry was titled “Robbin’ the Hood: Steal from the Poor and Give to the Rich.” Using free-market principles as their Teflon cover, the members of the Boys amp; Girls Club of Washington, which is to say the banking lobbyists and our very own elected officials, have crafted one blank check after another for their corporate cronies. Yes, the very people who brought this country’s economy to its knees are still being treated like royalty on Capitol Hill, and guess who’s picking up the tab? These are your tax dollars I’m talking about, your money. In my book, that’s called stealing, and it’s all happening right before our eyes.

Click here to get home addresses and phone numbers for some of DC’s most outrageous robber barons. Give them a call during dinner some night and let them know how you feel. Better yet, wait till they’re not there, then break in and help yourself to some of their hard-earned cash. See how they like it.

In some ways, the most unexpected thing in Pilkey’s office was the collection he kept of his own press about the scandal. One recent article was still in an unmarked folder on his desk. It was a New York Times op-ed.

Both Pilkey and Vinton are the subject of what will no doubt become yet another long, drawn-out investigation, proving nothing, punishing no one, and accomplishing negative gain when it comes to protecting the people who matter the most – the average joes of the world, just struggling to make ends meet.

So, no surprise, Pilkey had more than his share of haters. This was almost the opposite of no leads. Everything I’d read was just the tip of the iceberg. I flagged anything that mentioned specific threats, but the information was mounting, and the list of suspects was going to be impossibly long.

One thing was clear to me already: we were going to need a bigger team.

DENNY HATED THE SHELTER on Thirteenth Street with a passion that bordered on homicide, and particularly tonight. Lining up on the sidewalk for a bed sucked big-time, especially while the rest of the city went apeshit over their two perfect sniper hits on Eighteenth Street. What a rush! And what a waste of a good night when he and Mitch should have been celebrating.

Of course, it also made more sense than ever to be seen going about their business right now. So that’s what they were doing.

Mitch stuck close as always, shaking his head and jacking his knee up and down the way he did when he got stoked. It made him look just like any of the other basket cases who called this place home, which was fine, so long as the big man kept his mouth shut.

“Don’t talk to no one,” Denny reminded him as they filed like an army of zombies into the dorm. “Just keep your head down and get some sleep.”

“I won’t say nothing, Denny, but I’ll tell you what. I’d sure rather be sucking down a little Jim Beam about now.”